by Marie Thearose
Why should anyone die a sacrifice
when living blood flows in me
poured out and refreshed each moontide?
Why must I drain it from
the slit throats of turtle doves
to cleanse myself for
blood I could not help but spill?
No other fount I know
but my own.
And when this red snow
beneath my legs melts
water and blood
will nourish the earth.
